


A View from the Mountains: Lions in Crimson Fields - Chapter Four

by Maple_Tartan



Series: A View from the Mountains: Tales of the Avvar [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Avvar, Ferelden, Gen, Orlais, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 04:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Tartan/pseuds/Maple_Tartan
Summary: Tension are at an all-time high between the Orlesian Emperor Gaspard and King Alistair of Ferelden. Between these two nations, lies the fledgeling union of Avvar. Now, they must choose between their neighbours, a warmonger and the men they had just fought years ago.





	1. Chapter 1

The first cold winds of Blooming Tide had begun sweeping through the Bannorn. The farmers emerged from their brittle homes to meet the day with fervour. The sun shone on the crops through a thin veil of clouds, lightly kissing their skin. This particular farm was built along the River Dane, a few leagues east of Lake Calenhad. The farm was ruled by a lord who was off in his castle, rarely interfering in the lives of the little people. Beads of sweat lightly dripped off worker as he swept his scythe across the field. He raised his head, looking over his shoulder, surveying the neighbour’s plot. The daughter was out spreading seed for the chickens and collecting their eggs. He shot her a smile and waved, she responded likewise. The two of them had been meeting late at night for some time, tending the spark they had together.

While they exchange pleasantries, shapes appeared over the hills behind the neighbour’s farm. The sun twinkled off their armour, blinding the boy. The figures were men on horses and when the clouds shifted, he could make out the banner they flew. It depicted an emerald lion’s head roaring on a background of jade and mustard yellow. The boy could not identify which noble house these banners were attributed to but he recognised the masked chevalier of the Orlesians. The horses had only paused for a moment to survey the area before charging forth, trembling the earth beneath. The farm boy started calling out to the neighbour, waving his arms frantically. She turned to see the source of the noise but it was too late. She turned to meet her end, a blade striking her down. The boy started yelling, calling for help. The number of soldiers in the town, which had been increasing over the weeks, poured from their posts. They met the attackers bravely, weapons ready. However, they were no match for heavy cavalry, dealing little damage as their numbers were felled. The family that the farmboy served left their home and simply started running when they saw the chevalier. They were as easily run down as the girl was, ants under their hooves.

The boy had fled the second the girl was killed, able to gain enough distance in the wake of the defending soldiers. He held his scythe in hand while running as fast as he could. He entered the dense woods that bordered the edge of the farmlands, ducking between the trees. Once he heard a horse gaining on him, he climbed a tree. He swiftly reached the top, hiding amongst the cluster of branches. A chevalier rode under him, taking no notice. The boy remained tense, tightening his grip on his scythe. The chevalier returned, this time slowly trotting about the area. Once again, he did not notice the boy. When he finally left, the boy slightly uncurled himself, observing his surroundings. He looked to the trunk of the tree he was perched in. Carved into the bark were his initials along with the neighbour’s daughter. He dragged his hand over the knicks he had made with his pocket knife after enjoying his first picnic with her amongst these branches. That night, he made a secure bedding before silently crying himself to sleep, thinking nothing but anger and vengeance.

Alistair rarely sat on his throne, spending most of his time either at the war table or inspiring the people. He was truly a king crowned by his subjects. Today, he sat in the war room, head in hands. There was a pounding at the palace doors before they slowly opened. The guards posted to the sides straightened their posture, the clang of their armour ringing through the silent halls. A scout, panting and sweating, entered, asking to see the king. Alistair rose from his seat and peeked his head out the door.

“Over here.” he said, monotone.

“Your Majesty, the Orlesians. They managed to destroy your spy network, slipping past our defences undetected. They have entered the Bannorn, crossing the River Dane.” said the scout, pausing to catch his breath every few seconds.

The news was no surprise. Escalating tensions between the two nations had been apparent with the military leader Gaspard running the empire. They had prepared the best they could for an invasion, however, the Orlesians were better funded, had superior diplomatic ties, larger population, highly skilled warriors, and much more. He had to wait for them to make the first move.

“Gather me four messengers and parchment, inform any of the high ranking nobility in Denerim of the dangers at hand.” said Alistair, to the room. A servant standing by quickly bowed before speeding off as did the scout to find the nobles.

The war council consisted of a few local lords, most notably of Arl Eamon. It was not the first time these men had been assembled to speak of a defence plan so any topics of discussion were no surprise.

“Letters to assemble the Teyrns have already been sent to Highever and Gwaren. The people of Gwaren are to sail here while Highever is preparing for a siege. The Arlings of Amaranthine and Redcliffe have also been told to begin preparations as South Reach has been ordered to head here and the West Hills to join within Redcliffe.” said Alistair, gesturing to the map before him.

“Where do we defend first? To stay here is to welcome the end with open arms.” said Arl Eamon, he had become known, over the years, to seek out the most reliable solution.

“The Bannorn has already been lost. I say we send some of our men to Redcliffe, but most to Vigil’s Keep while maintaining the remainder of the force here, until we are certain of Gaspard’s first target.” continued Alistair.

“Why exactly Vigil’s Keep?” asked a minor lord, no doubt one with his stakes in Redcliffe.

“The keep houses our most modern defences since the Wardens held it. They themselves may be off either in Weishaupt of rebuilding elsewhere but the legendary Silver Order remains along with any protective measures left by the Hero of Ferelden. To take that keep first would be an explosive blow to the kingdom.” said Alistair, momentarily remembering fondly upon his old friend. There was little left to discuss as the lords left to prepare the men and scouts sent word wing to the four corners of Ferelden. Eamon would remain and help Alistair prepare for war once again.

The King woke the next day seeing the sun rising out his window. He sat up, covered in a thin layer of sweat, and prepared for the day. As the days got colder, Alistair donned a leather overshirt with a fur lined neck before heading down to the kitchens. He burst in on the ladies hard at work, gave the head chef a kiss on the cheek that made her blush and swiped an apple off the counter after being shooed out. He headed to the war room, as where he would now spend the majority of his days. He opened the door to see Arl Eamon, pouring over worn out maps.

“Wonderful morning, uncle.” said Alistair, taking a bite from the red apple before taking his place opposite Eamon.

“It’s good to maintain positive demeanour for the people.” replied Eamon, dismissively.

“Any news.”

Eamon pointed to a pile of letters on the corner of the table. Alistair started skimming through. “Gaspard is clearly heading directly to Vigil’s Keep.” he said, halfway through the pages.

“Without a doubt. First fort to fall, last to be liberated. Damn Orlesians love their symbols.” said Eamon, subconsciously excluding his wife from that statistic.

“Then we send the remaining reserves there, ensure they arrive before a siege begins.” That last remark to a scout standing in the doorway. The scout promptly handed over his paperwork before hustling away.

“So it is to be a war of attrition, cowering behind our city’s walls. This will work for some time but how can we end it? The Orlesian supply line through Jader is strong and they dominate the Waking Sea.” continued Eamon, pointing at different positions on the map.

“Well, we must avoid pitched battles as their army is larger with stronger cavalry. They would simply route our forces or slaughter them.” responded Alistair, leaning back against the wall.

“Thus we remain in our castles, waiting for our food reserves to run dry?” said Eamon, growing frustrated.

“Our best option is to wait for the winter, and pray for the Maker.” said Alistair, leaving to eat the first meal of a long day. 

Months have passed since the Orlesians crossed the Frostbacks. Highever had remained supplied while under siege having their trade routes with Kirkwall remain untouched, as Orlais had no wish to spark conflict with the Free Marches. Vigil’s Keep was under the most pressure with its historical and strategic positioning. The fortress had managed to remain standing by keeping themselves alive with ties to Kal’Hirol, the Deep Roads remaining clear in preparation while tensions between the nations were rising. Since Vigil’s Keep proved impossible to take, Gaspard’s forces could not reach Denerim before Alistair thoroughly fortified the city. Redcliffe had it the worst. Starvation was just barely being staved off as any of their trade connections had been cut. However, packages were being delivered by hawks and eagles, managing to avoid Orlesian bowmen, and Lake Calenhad still supported a decent fish population.

The Second Orlesian Invasion of Ferelden had been a success due in part because of the divisiveness within the Fereldan nobility, many betraying their families for the promise of wealth and higher political stature. Now, with Alistair in power along with recent events, the nobility was completely united and filled with even more hate than before. Orlesians now occupied all of Ferelden except for the major keeps, reaping the benefits of the fertile Bannorn while the Fereldans survived off of dwindling crop reserves. However, neither side of the conflict was particularly ecstatic for the winter months that had now arrived. Fereldans were already having enough trouble keeping themselves alive beyond battling the elements and the Orlesians had presumed they would be held up in a keep before the first snowfall.

Within Denerim, Alistair had opened the royal food supply to the people, even the loathed elves of the alienage, and often hosted guests in the palace. He had truly become beloved by his subjects, even during a time of hostile invasion. On a particularly frozen evening during dinner, a scout entered the royal palace with a message.

“Sorry to intrude your majesty, but I have urgent news.” said the scout, standing tall next to a torch, melting away the snow on his shoulders.

“Excuse me friends but I believe this needs to be private.” said Alistair, politely leaving the table of peasants to enter the war room. The scout followed, kindly nodding at the guests as he passed.

“Let’s hope it’s good.” said Alistair, as the scout closed the door.

“We have received reports that the town of Jader has been sacked and occupied by the Avvar. The Orlesian supply line has been severed.” replied the scout, presenting a folder of documents to the king.

Alistair’s eyes opened wide in shock as he grabbed the reports. Sifting through them, he skimmed detailed accounts of the ravaged town along with an updated map of the Orlesian supply lines. He sat in his worn out chair and sighed.

“If that is all, can you fetch Eamon for me?” asked Alistair, seeming exhausted. The scout bowed before hastily leaving the room. Eamon came down the cold stone steps, said his good graces to the visitors still eating at the table, before heading to meet Alistair. Once he entered, he could see Alistair leaning over the table of maps with pins scattered about.

“What news has come from the front?” asked Eamon, leaning against the table across from the king.

“The Avvar have made an appearance in Jader and have taken a liking to the fine decor.” responded Alistair, showing Eamon the reports.

“Excellent! The Orlesians are stuck here with dwindling supplies and no solid shelter as the long winter settles in. Those barbarians have impeccable timing.” said Eamon, seeming ecstatic.

“Quite, what is your advice on the matter?” asked Alistair, placing his uncle’s suggestions above any other he would hear.

“What else can we do other than stick to the plan? To battle the Orlesians is suicide. Our best hope is that the elements take them for us. Although the word around Redcliffe is worrying. It is said starvation has set in and they now feast on the flesh of the dead.” replied Eamon, his concern deep for his old Arling.

“Fabrications by those seeking to sensationalise the attrition of sieges. They are lasting, just barely, but they are. I must send a letter.” he said, placing a hand on Eamon’s shoulder before leaving the room. Eamon followed him out and finished entertaining the guests as Alistair made his way to the study.

The next morning, Alistair woke with his face planted on his thick oak desk. Writing was not a skill that came naturally to the King, causing him to pass out in his chair while trying to find the correct wording. He stood from his slumped position, stretched, and fully opened the curtains. Picking up his night’s efforts, he read his letter through hazy eyes.

“It’s the best it’s will ever be.” he said, placing his signet ring in crimson wax and planting the royal seal on the rolled up parchment. Once the wax dried, Alistair brought the letter over to the bird coup and presented the letter to its keeper.

“For the falcon. It already knows who it’s for.” he said, after making morning pleasantries.

“At once, your majesty.” said the keeper, preparing the falcon before releasing it out a large hatch.

“The falcon should return within the week.” said the keeper, beginning to clean the coup.

“Pray to Andraste that it does.” said Alistair, leaving to meet the day’s challenges.


	2. Raining Cats and Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fereldan has been invaded by the Orlesians for the third time and Alistair is praying on an unlikely alliance.

The morning was crisp, the air freezing in the lungs of the soldiers as massive flakes of snow delicately fell on the battlefield. The two armies of the southern kingdoms stood poised for battle, bordered on the north by the towering peaks of The Coastlands and the bleak white landscape of The Bannorn to the south. The leaders of both forces walked the front lines on horseback, staring down the enemy. The Fereldans appeared more as a ragtag group of misfits, with little in the name of coordinated arms. Their forces were made up of the few remaining well-trained forces from Anora’s incursion into the Frostbacks, the King’s personal guard, sprinkled about the shield-wall, the Silver Order, inspiring all around with their shining armour, and many common folk, only recently trained under the King’s guidance. The Orlesians were different, portraying a strong unified front. They were a professional army, renowned throughout the continent as masterfully trained and danger to all run afoot. However, both sides thought the same as any man ready to meet the Maker, thinking only of their supportive families and the pride of a nation driving them through the coldest of winters. The Orlesians had lost their supply lines, being only able to sustain themselves off grain reaped from the Bannorn and horse meat. The Fereldans were not in any better a shape, both sides only remained standing from the fire raging within.

A horn was sounded on the Orlesians side, echoing throughout the battlefield as the archers loosed a hail of arrows. Hell rained upon the dog lords, whom swiftly retaliated with their own famed archers. Once the displays of archery ended, the Orlesian lined advanced. While they approached, the Fereldans made their final preparations, having the most heavily armoured at the front, silently saying prayer, and spear-wielding farmers at their backs, loudly calling to the Maker.

Feeling the gap between the armies was small enough, the Orlesians sprang forth. The cries of both armies rang clear in the silent winter morn. The wooden kite shields of the Orlesians smashed against the rounded shields of the Fereldans, attempting to crush them with their might. The line held and the battle of bloody attrition began.

The men at the front stabbed and slashed with the short swords as their allies poked and prodded from behind, aiming for open areas. Dead bodies had already began to pile up, leading to trips and stumbles, creating even more dead. The Orlesians, with superior forces, started to flank the Fereldan shield-wall. They were met with slow retreats until the Fereldans had formed a semicircle against the mountains, eliminating any chance of flanking or further retreat. Alistair’s horse reared, backing from the frontline.

“Your Majesty! What are we to do?” asked a lesser noble, seeing his children cut down before him. 

Alistair dismounted, drawing his sword and grabbing a shield from a fallen soldier, “We fight.”

He joined the shield-wall. Once rapidly depleting now steadily stood their ground, invigorated by their leader joining the fray. The Orlesians took notice and began pressuring his part of the wall. He was lucky to have skillful comrades putting their lives before his to block many incoming swings while farmers and militia speared over his head. Despite this aid, a short sword made its way over his shield and narrowly missing his left eye, leaving him a scar to remember this day. Alistair’s time in the shield-wall was short lived before he was wrenched out by Eamon and his placed filled by a trusted palace guard.

Eamon held his shoulders tight, “Have you lost your mind?! You could have yourself slaughter, or worse captured! If you’re gone, this nation collapses.”

Alistair shook away his uncle’s grasp, “Every able member of this nation is to fight for its freedom, even its King!”

It was clear the argument was over and Alistair receded as a warrior to instead give commands and spread morale. While he walked the back of the shield wall, a hole was punctured. An Orlesian poured forth and lashed out at the King. Before he could reach Alistair, the King drew his sidearm and jabbed it into his attacker’s gullet, shoving him back into his comrades to plug the hole. The advance was stopped and the fallen soldier’s place was taken by another.

“Our line is growing rather thin.” shouted an advisor. He told no lie, the shield wall was hanging by a thread, only three ranks thick. Within minutes, the Fereldan army would fall and the nation would be swept under the Orlesian empire, a nation’s flame snuffed out just as it had been decades ago.

Before Alistair could respond, another horn sounded in the distance. The sound was different from the musical tone of the Orlesian’s signal, it was more animalistic and savage. Alistair turned his back to face the source of the noise, looking at the high peaks of The Coastlands. There he saw his saviours, a horde of Avvar descending from the sky. They charged with great speed, coming to support the ranks of the Fereldans and to flank the Orlesians. Not only had the hillsmen arrived, liberated forces from Highever emerged on the Imperial Highway, swords raised as they galloped at high speeds. The tide had turned as Orlesians began scrambling to reform some sort of tactic to respond to such an influx of soldiers but failed to prepare themselves for the onslaught. The Avvar rode down the cliffside on a variety of tamed beast, from bears to boars to wyverns. Many began as scrawny mages before shifting into magnificent creatures bent on bloodshed. The foot soldiers savagely approached their enemies, magically and alchemically enhanced. They burst into the flanks of the Orlesians, tearing at their plate armour and battering them to death. The Fereldans took little notice of who had come to help, only concerned with survival.

The Avvar forces were unique from either lowlander army. Their bodies were primal; covered in random animal pelts, coated in a variety of coloured woad, from deep blue, to crimson red, to bleak grey. Unlike the Fereldans and Orlesians, they did not look up to one singular leader as the head of their cause. They saw their thane or even their augur as their leaders. The charge itself illustrated this individualism within the Avvar as they looked nothing of an organized military, each tribe and each fighter wearing whatever and slaughtering with whatever, but with a common goal.

With the Orlesian shield wall collapsed, the battlefield had turned to anarchy. Some Orlesians stood their ground, brave and strong, while others attempted to run for their lives, all being eventually chased down. Emperor Gaspard turned his back on his men, abandoning them along with his nobles. His retreat did not go unnoticed, sparking the interest of choice Avvar leaders and mounted Fereldans. Alistair swiftly mounted his horse and pursued the rival monarch. While he sped along, he was met by other horseman of his people and surpassed by a few red lions, dashing before them. The red lion Avvar reached their target first and started taking down their prey. The horses were well protected with their plate armour, sadly this meant they were slow and immobile, having them be easily surrounded and overwhelmed. A large black striped red lion turned before Gaspard, causing his horse to rear and collapse. The other nobles turned to aid their emperor but were too attacked by red lions, being ripped to the ground.

By the time all the Orlesians lay face down in the snow, the Fereldan horses had caught up with their comrades. The Avvar circled their victims, remaining in their animal bodies.

“Execute the nobles.” said Alistair, dismounting his steed and striding over to Gaspard.

“Fucking Fereldans.” he said, his face covered in mud.

“Not just Fereldans. The great Orlesians were defeated by the Avvar.” this remark was met with growls among the red lions.

“Why bother gloating, end it now boy.”

“That is not for me to decide. I’ll leave that to your cousin.”

Gaspard moaned and groaned as he was bound by thick steel chains and stripped nude before being tied to a steed.

“Glad we could lend a hand.” said Rankys, a soft smile breaking over his crimson face.

Alistair held a stern expression, “We can talk later, the men await us.”

The Fereldans mounted their horses and returned to the battleground with the Avvar, Gaspard in tow. The valley beneath the coastline was full of corpse mounds; Orlesian, Fereldan, and Avvar alike. Few soldiers walked among the corpses, ensuring the fallen were truly dead, while the others mingled among one another. The Avvar and Fereldans tended to stay with their own kind but there was no shortage of confused lowlanders, brave enough to question the arrival of the Avvar.

“We are victorious!” shouted Alistair, raising his sword into the air, covered in blood. This announcement was met with cheers from both sides. Now, the groups of soldiers had turned their attention to the King and his allies, gathering together before him. The Avvar were an odd sight before the King. The fighters from Rift Hold looked as different from those of Frost Hold as a Rivaini pirate from an Orlesian chevalier. Thanes who had fought alongside their people now joined the King’s side. 

“And we bring the Orlesian’s Emperor!” shouted Rankys, pulling Gaspard before him.

This was met with roaring applause, mixed with some giggles. No sorrow was felt for their enemy’s leader. All Fereldans could reference one friend or family member who died in at least one of the Orlesian’s incursions. The Avvar bellowed the loudest. Believing imprisonment more humiliating than death, the Emperor was quite a comedic sight.

The sun had began to set and both armies made camp for the night, far enough from the corpses to have their stench be tolerable. Alistair sat alone in his tent, enjoying some strong ale while his men celebrated along with their Avvar brethren. Their jovial attitudes ignored the centuries of friction their peoples held but they both felt it appropriate to move on for at least one day. The following morn was met with grim grievances. Both peoples met the battlefield in sadness, searching the corpses for their kin. The Andrastian Fereldans found their allies and proceeded to burn their corpses while the Avvar prepared sky burials for the little dead they had.

As the population of Ferelden had fallen after the Second Orlesian Invasion, as well as the Blight, and the Breach, they once again faced a drought of people. For the years to come, the Fereldans would find solace in their now mountain allies. Raids ended and some Avvar even came to help rebuild. For aid against the Orlesians in the one large battle and the small skirmishes that followed clearing the land, the Avvar were permitted to return to the Southron Hills and Coastlands, alongside being gifted a small patch of land on the east side of Lake Calenhad with the island where Kinloch Hold once stood. The Avvar would reconstruct a similar building, using labourers and stonemasons from the holds. No specific chieftain would preside over the tower but would be administered by the board of all Avvar leaders, united on the objective of having a flourishing trade post. A force of warriors was stationed there, large enough to keep the peace while too small to mount any attacks. The feeling between their neighbours was tense for some time but they grew to accept their circumstances and live comfortably. Alistair would keep in close touch with the Avvar leaders, cautious of their nature but also glad of their change of heart. The peace may have been strenuous with some tense flashpoints but largely kept both nations on prosperous footing and in safe status on the world stage. 


End file.
